Such power is in the magic sounds of Love.

THE RAPE OF PROSERPINE.

O FOR the thousand flowers that erst did bloom

In that Sicilian Valley wild,

Where golden Ceres left her Child

Conceal'd from all the Sons of Jove,

So to elude th' inevitable doom

Of Fate, and stronger Love!

In vain. The grisly Monarch of the Dead,

Stern Dis, uprears his gloomy head

Mid the black smoke and ruddy flames that wrap

Around old Ætna's smould'ring top;

There, as the wandering Nymph he view'd,

Awhile in blank amaze he stood

Till Love to fury roused his blood.

He call'd his ebon Car and Steeds of fire:

They came, and with the headlong torrent's speed

Down to the lily-spangled mead

They bore their mighty Sire:

Swift in his arms the fainting Maid he took,

Then drove impetuous on, while all Sicilia shook.

SONNET.

O THOU, to whom my heart (no longer mine)

Doth yield itself a captive love-subdued ;

Fair goodly frame of Nature's work divine

To inchase the gem thy mind more fair and good,
Let not thy scorn pursue the Muse's Son,
For gentle is his mind, and pure his flame,

And for thy love he shall inscribe thy name

Among those Fair whose peerless beauty won Renown from ancient bards, on harp and lyre

So sweetly sounded, that the wondering Earth,

Thro' all her climes, yet listens to the strain.

O meekly-blooming Flower, if on thy birth Soft Pity shed her dew, quench not his fire,

Quench not his hallow'd fire with cold disdain.